


Admiration

by Impalamano



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impalamano/pseuds/Impalamano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually Castiel is the one to 'come' when Dean calls, but this seems to be one of those more unusual occasions. Dean experiences Castiel's existential sexual experiment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admiration

**Admiration**

Dean had called him, of that much Castiel is certain. He could never mistake his voice, a revving engine, on edge, purring with challenge and self-assurance; even if Dean doesn’t feel it deep down in the lightning storm they call a soul. 

In Castiel’s experience, prayers are a rare and special occurrence. At least, they had been rare until Dean Winchester had gambolled into his periphery, eventually occupying every inch of his vision until the only things to see were dark eyelashes, come-get-me eyes and self-inflated importance. Except, it isn’t so much self-inflated as it is inflicted, Dean’s life choices a cleverly designed chain reaction in the great and complex cosmos leading him to where he is now, toes twisting in an itchy, woollen blanket in a moderately dingy motel room off a dark, empty highway, Sam Winchester sleeping like the dead in the bed beside his. 

Castiel can follow the journey from beginning to present, but this situation, this  _predicament_ , surprises and intrigues him. 

Dean sleeps atop the sheets now, in boxer shorts and a t-shirt; clothes stained with old blood are folded carefully over the chair beside the window. His right hand is fisted in a poor excuse for a pillow, as flattened and as exhausted as Dean must have felt before he collapsed there, bloodied, bruised and battered. The tacky scent of gunpowder sinks into war-weathered skin dyed dark around his nails and the tips of his fingers. Dean smells like fireworks on cold, Autumn* nights, Castiel thinks, and then wonders why he knows that scent, his memories, orderly like a catalogue, offering him no explanation. 

Castiel is wary, standing at Dean’s bedside, eyes smoothing the arches and falls of his form. On-the-job muscles are taught and ready and his eyelashes are flickering, twitching with dreams Castiel could step into if he chose to, if Dean hadn’t firmly insisted he not invade his privacy like that because ‘dude, a man’s gotta have a  _few_  secrets!’ Castiel had acquiesced of course; he will always do whatever Dean asks of him, after all, though he doesn’t entirely understand his need for secrecy when every glimmer of emotion shines like a beacon in his eyes.  

It’s perplexing. Dean is fast asleep and yet, Dean was praying for him, Castiel heard it well, though his voice had an extra something, a slip of neediness, of weak desperation, that had the hair on the back of his vessel’s neck prickling with heat. He had arrived post haste.

“Cas, please…” Castiel leans closer, brow knitted. Curious it is the way sweat beads Dean’s forehead just beneath his hairline, the way his breath is noisy, hurried and patternless, the way his lips are sinful pink and wet and parted. He leans low, studying the lines on his skin, the sharp angle of his nose, the indentations of his cheeks, all the delicate, physical mechanics of humanity that make Dean  _Dean_. He’s mesmerising, Castiel thinks, every cell clinging to cell clinging to cell a wonder and a miracle of the highest order. So utterly, inexplicably intricate and fascinating—

Castiel doesn’t retreat with embarrassment when he sees Dean is awake, though he stands straight to address him. “Hello, Dean,” he says, his monotone hushed for the sake of the younger Winchester curled on his side in the adjacent bed. “You called.”

Dean’s eyes sweep over him twice, dazed and addled, settling comfortably in the familiarity of Castiel’s stare. His thighs are spread, the dream-induced bulge between his legs particularly obvious. “There was me thinking you’d reached a whole new level of creeper,” Dean murmurs, voice rough. His tongue sweeps the length of his lower lip. Leaning nearer, Castiel’s eyes dart to the swift retreat of his tongue. “You, uh…you caught me at an awkward moment here, man.”

“You called,” Castiel repeats, head cocked. His eyes travel the length of his torso, settling on his groin with a startling degree of fascination. “You were having a dream of a sexual nature?”

Dean rolls his eyes, almost,  _almost_  ashamed. “Yeah, and it was good, so if you don’t mind—”

“Let me help.”

“Cas, what the—”

Dean’s eyes are particularly reflective in the dark, Castiel notices, his fingertips tickling the damp edge of Dean’s boxers. Dean’s fists white-knuckle in the sheets, knees swinging minutely until long fingers shimmy beneath worn elastic. It wraps around the bridge of Castiel’s hand as his fingers find what he’s searching for, exploring, memorising shape, heat, weight, texture, even the scent as it drifts on the air, heady and foreign.  

Dean’s head lolls lazily, a flurry of hushed expletives tumbling from the tip of his tongue. “Odd,” Castiel murmurs, intensely studious, thumb roving over the silky head. Dean cracks an eye to direct a half-hearted glare his way, hips shifting, eager for more. 

“ _Thanks_ , man,” he grumbles, head falling again, his exposed throat flushed. Neither of them say anything further when Castiel closes the distance, fixing lips to the deliciously tempting bob of his Adam’s apple, just a sample, a meagre taste of Heaven. As he lifts to shift his concentration to more pressing matters, Dean urges him back down to connect their mouths, offering the apple and making him take a bite. 

Castiel savours it, every flavour, committing them to memory in the order they appear. His fingers map Dean with dexterity and grace, handling him carefully, accurately, expertly the way Castiel handles the gleaming weapon concealed in the sleeve of his coat. By the time Castiel has him figured out, understanding the depth of every hitch and twitch and curse, Dean is twisting like a tortured soul, feet thrusting the blanket off the end of the bed as his hips thrust into Castiel’s palm. 

His orgasm is heavy, a spiralling eruption of adrenaline, all encompassing. Drained, Dean is fast asleep again, body lax and pliant. The room is quiet. Castiel frees himself from the confines of Dean’s underwear, curiously examining the sticky mess left behind. He can see the limitless possibilities, all the opportunities for life in a single drop, creation and evolution teetering in the careless hands of mankind. 

Dean snorts, rolling onto his side. Castiel smiles sedately, hand clean with barely a thought. “I’ll always come when you call, Dean Winchester,” he says, dipping to kiss his sleep furrowed brow. A moment passes and then he’s gone, the breeze of his exit wrinkling Dean’s nose. 

In the other bed, Sam Winchester sleeps soundly on.

\- End

* I considered going with ‘Fall’ since that technically sits better with the setting and with canon, but I’m English and using that word is against my nature :D


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